


whatever, whatever

by boxedblondes



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: 2x07, F/F, How we all wish this scene would've gone down tbh, I can’t tell if I hate this or not but here you go!, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 02:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19098127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxedblondes/pseuds/boxedblondes
Summary: Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, Eve thinks.I am far too old to be having a sexuality crisis.A rewrite of THAT scene in 2x07.





	whatever, whatever

**Author's Note:**

> Me, sitting in bed with my laptop at 10pm on a Tuesday, writing sexy villaneve fic to distract from the physical and emotional pain of watching fleabag s2 twice in one week: is this self-care?
> 
>  
> 
> Title from "Stranger (1993)" by birthday.

Villanelle toes off her shoes and slides into the large, disgustingly ornate bed (because, really – _black sheets?_ ), wondering what the odds are that Eve has her earpiece in. It’s got to be at least fifty-fifty, she figures. Probably closer to seventy-thirty given how obsessive Eve is about her job.

Whatever. It’s cute.

And because Villanelle has had it up to _here_ with Aaron Peel and all his controlling bullshit, not to mention every single other person she talks to these days starting every conversation with some variation of “Remember not to kill anyone” (like that’s not her goddamn _job_ ), she’s a little desperate to let off some steam. 

So. Why not fuck with Eve a little?

“What are you doing?” she asks the empty room.

*

Eve’s about _this close_ to just passing out right here, upright in an uncomfortably stiff desk chair. Hugo conked out what feels like forever ago, and his light snores are about the only thing still keeping Eve awake (ahh, misophonia). When the sounds of Villanelle’s heavy breathing start filtering through her earpiece, she briefly wonders if she’s dreaming.

But then she hears, loud and clear against her right eardrum, “Are you going to listen _all_ night?” and suddenly she’s wide fucking awake.

Villanelle is breathing raggedly – deep, heavy, dramatic sighs bordering on outright moans – and Eve wonders who she’s talking to, who she’s with right now. She wonders if it’s (oh, God) Aaron fucking Peel.

“Are you having fun in Rome?” Villanelle asks, laughing. Eve wants nothing more than to rip the earpiece out, curl up in the fetal position on her depressingly firm hotel bed, and forget that she ever almost had to hear Villanelle have sex with… well, _anyone_ , but especially that monster. But if it _is_ Peel she’s talking to, Eve has to know, as much as just the thought makes her skin crawl.

Another sigh, this one unquestionably sexual. “You should let yourself go once in a while,” Villanelle says.

And Eve’s been so wrapped up in the shock of it all – repulsed (and, secretly, a little turned on) by the thought that she might have to sit here, at half-past midnight on a Wednesday, and listen to Villanelle, of all people, fuck the only man Eve’s ever genuinely contemplated murdering – that she hasn’t even realized that she can’t hear anyone else in the room, responding to Villanelle’s questions or perhaps making little noises of their own.

And sure, Villanelle might still be talking to Peel. He’s got cameras and bugs in every single room in that creepy mansion of his; there’s no doubt that he could hear Villanelle right now if he really wanted to. But if she's not, that means…

That means.

“I can help you,” Villanelle says, laughing again in that peculiar, breathless way of hers.

 _Oh, fuck_ , Eve thinks. _She’s talking to me_.

Villanelle chokes on a moan, the sound loud and unmistakable in Eve’s ear. And (oh, God), there’s the distinct sound of fabric rustling along with it now. She’s… she’s… 

Eve’s brain is starting to shut down.

She’s got to get out of here. Villanelle is clearly not stopping and Eve’s got no way to communicate with her (god _damn_ one-way mics). She could just take the earpiece out but, for some imperceptible reason, that no longer seems like a real option. Her heart is pounding (as are other notable parts of her anatomy) and she can barely hear over the rush of blood, let alone think.

For one brief, shameful moment Eve remembers Hugo, fast asleep on the bed behind her. She turns to look at him, just a shapeless mass of curly hair and bedsheets, and – for a few seconds, though she’d never admit it to anyone, ever, under any circumstances – she… thinks about it.

But no. 

(Incidentally, much later, she _will_ mention it to Villanelle, Eve wine-drunk and spilling all her secrets. Villanelle will laugh but then say, quite seriously, “It’s a good thing you didn’t. I would have had to kill him if you did.

Eve believes her.)

So Eve has to scramble her things together – pursephoneroomkeycoat – and rush out into the hall, down two doors – no, three – and unlock the door to her own room, all while Villanelle continues to moan and sigh and fucking _rustle_ in the background.

She hardly has time to throw all her stuff in a heap on the desk chair and get her shoes off before Villanelle is speaking again.

“Are you enjoying yourself yet?” she asks. “I know I am.”

Her voice has dropped at least an octave since the last time she spoke, husky now like she’s been chain-smoking in the interim. The sound of it goes straight to Eve’s pelvic region, settling there like molten weight. (She _swears_ there’s an actual heft to the feeling).

“You don’t have to feel _bad_ about it,” Villanelle says. “Guilty, whatever. It’s alright. Trust me.”

(Oh, but Eve _does_ trust her. Isn’t that the whole problem?)

Eve stretches out on the bed, on top of the covers. “I can tell you what to do if that makes it easier,” Villanelle says. Eve nods in response, forgetting for a moment that she’s not really there.

“Take off your clothes.”

And holy shit. Her voice is _so_ deep and Eve was not expecting her to be that forward so soon. But what is she to do but obey? So off comes her shirt, her work slacks, her socks. She hesitates for a second, stripped down to her underwear, but then there’s a particularly loud rustle-and-moan combo from Villanelle’s end and just like that, the moment of doubt is gone (as are Eve’s undergarments).

Villanelle’s next command comes several seconds later. Eve has a sinking suspicion she already knows what it’s going to be. And, true to form – 

“Touch yourself.”

 _Fuuuuuck_. Eve is undeniably aroused now, gut-punched with the intensity of it. She reaches a hand down between her thighs, curls it around herself and just lets herself _feel_ for a moment. There’s a new sound from Villanelle’s end now, one that takes a moment to click with Eve in her current state. Soft, wet, almost… 

And then Eve’s sluggish brain puts the puzzle pieces together and her hips jerk up sharply, unconsciously. _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_ , Eve thinks, vocabulary reduced dramatically as all her blood rushes south. _I am far too old to be having a sexuality crisis_.

It’s like a light switch has been flipped. Eve just… gives in. She closes her eyes and lets her body do what it wants – hand moving furiously between her legs, hips twitching erratically. She listens to Villanelle’s hitching breaths and desperate little sounds and lets herself imagine what it would be like if she were here, in the room with her. 

“I wish I could hear you,” Villanelle says, one word at a time, punctuated by soft little _uh uh_ s. “I wish you… oh.”

It is surreal to hear her reduced to some place beyond language. Eve wonders what she looks like right now.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” Villanelle says. “I hope you’re close because I… I want you to come.” 

When she next speaks, it is a stage whisper, loud and crackly in such a way that Eve thinks she must be whispering right into the mic, lips pressed against it as she barely breathes, “I want you to come, Eve.”

And all Eve can think is _Oh my God, oh my God_ because she hadn’t realized that she was close. That she was _right there_. 

She works her fingers a little faster, her other hand making a fist of the cheap hotel sheets. The world has been reduced to just sound and light and nerve endings – the feeling of her fingers and the sound of Villanelle working herself to orgasm and the cresting of the wave, coming closer and closer.

Eve comes for ages and ages. It is, unquestionably, the best orgasm she’s had in years.

The aftershocks are long and luxurious and she rides them out as Villanelle loses all control over herself and lapses into what Eve is almost certain is Russian. When she comes, it is subtle but unmistakable – a sharp inhale, like she’s in pain, and then a long silence. The sound sends one last lightning bolt to the pit of Eve’s stomach.

(Maybe if she were a younger woman, she could go again.)

Eve wipes her hand, slippery and sticky with sweat and other bodily fluids, onto her own thigh and crawls under the covers as she listens to Villanelle come down. She’s just turning off the lamp on the nightstand when Villanelle finds her voice again.

“Wow,” she says. “Was that good for you?” She laughs and Eve laughs along, softly in the pitch-black of the room.

She’s almost asleep when Villanelle’s voice comes through one last time, quiet and close like she’s speaking directly into the mic again. “Good night,” she says. “Sleep well.”

 _You, too_ , Eve thinks, smiling into her pillow. 

And then sleep overtakes her.


End file.
